


The Ocean in Your Head

by ejr



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, ER if you squint, Fear, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Storms, enjolras is a pirate captain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 04:32:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14348019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ejr/pseuds/ejr
Summary: Grantaire has always had a gift (curse?) that lets him feel and take on the stress of storms. It can be quite damaging to him if he isn't taken care of.Luckily, his captain is there to help him.





	The Ocean in Your Head

There’s a storm brewing. The waters rush the sides of the ship agitatedly, wearing away at the wood with a sharp sense of impatience.

Enjolras and his crew stand on deck, trying to fight their way to the edge of the growing storm. The wind pushes against them at every turn. Even in the midst of the increasing rain, his clothes soaking through, his crew shouting for his next orders, there’s only one thing on Enjolras’s mind that rings clear and true.

The storm will only grow stronger. Grantaire, the man who didn’t know his past, his lineage, bonded to any storm that disrupted the sky, would grow agitated, matching the aggression of the storm. Together, the rains and thunder and the brain of the drunkard would run rampant, and destruction would prevail. The storm can and  _ will _ destroy everything in its path- and gods help them if they cross it. Enjolras knew what he had to do.

“Captain!” The calls reach Enjolras’s ears now. “Orders, sir!”

“Combeferre!” Enjolras yells to his second in command over the screaming winds. Combeferre stands at the wheel of the ship, his skin pale and his messy blonde hair darkened by the oceans water splashing into the air. “Find the eye of the storm and keep the ship steady.” He shouts over the railing to his friends on the main deck. “Tie down anything that moves. Keep your wits about you!” He calls to his crew, the men immediately lurching to action. 

His boots slip on the slick stairs as Enjolras rushes below decks. His hair is nearly blinding him as it whips around his head, but he doesn’t stop. The howl of the storm quiets as he descends the stairs. The sway of the boat is lesser the farther he goes, under the water level. He can hear the splashing of his boots in standing water, but he pays it no mind. Where did he see Grantaire last? He probably felt the storm approaching and hid away without even realizing.

“Grantaire.” He says under his breath. “Where might you be hiding?” Like a flash of lighting, Enjolras remembers. The poet’s quarters. 

Quickly, he rushes there, ducking under hanging bunks and over boxes, to the smallest available room, but the most airtight, the room meant for storing papers and maps and inks. Their resident lyricist Jehan often took refuge there when the words grew too many in his head. He would spend hours and hours down there, burning through candle after candle until he emerged, his smile clear as day.

Grantaire knew he wouldn’t be bothered there. 

Impatiently, Enjolras pushes his sopping hair away from his face, his soul and mind determined. He can still hear the thunder raging from deep within the belly of his ship. Enjolras could only pray to the gods that he and his brothers survived this- the storm was quickly growing to be the most dangerous front they had come across. 

It was dark at the back of the ship, no glass panes to let even a hint of light in. “Grantaire.” Enjolras calls. He hopes the drunk isn’t too far gone in his mind. He stands in front of the room. “Grantaire.” He whispers, wishing the wood of the door would open of its own accord. It doesn’t. The poets room is shut tight, but he grabs the handle and pulls it open anyway. The water around his ankles rushes in, slipping into the room like a wild animal, and Enjolras is quick to step in and stop the flow of water once again.

“Grantaire.” The dark is impressively murky, but Enjolras knows Grantaire is here, tucked away in the farthest corner. He can hear each labored breath that rattles through his chest. “R, my friend, speak to me.” He steps closer to the sound of Grantaire’s wheezing, reaching blindly for him. “Can you feel the storm? Is it here?” He says, hushed.

Grantaire groans in response. Enjolras’s eyes are adjusting to the dark, but not fast enough. 

“I know,” Enjolras says calmly. “I know, the storm is so powerful this time. Isn’t it? Everything will be just fine, though, I know it will be.” Enjolras kneels in the dark, uncaring for the frigid cold water that immediately soaks his pants and trickles into his boots. “Grantaire, are you with me?” He reaches out, hoping to make contact with the drunkard. At this level, he can smell the smoke of a candle long since burnt out- Grantaire probably had been trying to pen something before the storm hit.

“I’m with you, I’m by your side. I’m here.” Enjolras says. His heart is beating a quick tempo against his ribs, but Enjolras fights to keep his voice calm and steady for Grantaire’s sake. His hand finally touches something, and Enjolras squints, trying to pick out details in the inky darkness. It’s the cold skin of Grantaire’s shoulder, clammy even through his shirt. “Grantaire, are you with me?”

Grantaire rasps something and a cough shakes it’s way through him. “I…”

“It’s alright.” Enjolras soothes. He firmly grasps Grantaire’s shoulder, offering a ground, a rock against his swirling mindscape.

“ _ Tired _ .” Grantaire manges.

“I know. I know you are, you work so hard, fighting all the time.” Enjolras says. “Day in and day out. I know. Fighting for all of us, all of your friends, all day.” Enjolras shuffles forward on his knees, leveling himself with where Grantaire was slumped in the corner of the small room. “You work the hardest of us all, don’t you? Fighting with the ocean itself.”

“I can’t… Fight…” Grantaire groans, his head lolling back and hitting the wall with a thud. 

“Don’t fight it, Grantaire.” Enjorlas can see that Grantaire’s eyes have rolled back into his head, what’s still visible of his pupil is gray with the temperament of the storm. “You feel it, don’t you? The storm and all it’s great power? The force of Lady Nature, all her great wonders, her great terrors, what is she saying to you?”

“She’s  _ screaming _ , Enjolras,” Grantaire says hoarsely. “What do I do? She’s-” A shudder runs through him, ripping through his very soul, and Enjolras only holds tighter to Grantaire’s shoulder. “She’s crying.”

“It’s okay. I know you’re fighting, you’re our best fighter, but this time I need you to let down your guards.” If he ever finds the parents that abandoned his friend as a child, who left him to grow untrained and scared of his own abilities, Enjolras was going to kill them. “Can you do that? Captain's orders.”

“ _ Scared _ .” Grantaire whispers. His voice has lost it’s normal bass rumble, gaining a whispery echoing tone, as the magic of the storm takes over him. “ _ Alone _ .”

“Not alone. I’m here.” Enjolras presses his other hand to Grantaire’s cheek, holding his face, providing support. “I’m  _ right here _ , you hear me? A captain never abandons his friends. I’m here, Grantaire.”

Grantaire reaches out, grasping for something, and Enjolras just presses closer.

“Let the guards down. Don’t fight the storm. Don’t let her over take you, Grantaire, just walk beside her. Walk beside her. Convince her.”

Grantaire’s hands drop limply. His eyes are all white now, glinting in the darkness. Enjolras has never seen him this far gone before. For a sharp second, he fears that if Grantaire goes much further, he may never come back, but Enjorlas banishes the thought immediately. Grantaire  _ will _ be fine. They can get through this together, just like they always have.

Enjolras hardly registers the soft instructions and praises and reassurances that slip out of his mouth as he clings to Grantaire. Grantaire is shaking, and Enjolras can only kneel there and offer his physical reassurance until Grantaire resurfaces again.

When Grantaire does, his head rolls forward onto his chest, and he sucks in a deep gasp like he had been underwater the whole time.

“‘Jolras, where- where are we, what’s?” Grantaire rasps and lurches forward with a cracked sob, collapsing under his own weight. “What, what?”

“Shh,” Enjolras says, pulling Grantaire closer and supporting him. “Tell me what’s going on.” 

“The storm- she- she’s passing us, the storm, it’s heading west, we need to get to land.” Grantaire says, his voice raw. “We need to get to land. She won’t be so forgiving if it catches us again. Enj- Enjolras, we need to get to-”

“I know. I know,” Enjolras’s face crumples with a mixture of relief and simultaneous worry. “We will, you hear me? We’ll make it to land.” Grantaire throws his arms around Enjolras, and Enjolras closes his eyes tight as he clings to Grantaire.

Grantaire comes with him as Enjolras climbs his way back on deck. The wind still howls through their hair as they surface, and Combeferre’s yells are snatched away on it. Clinging tightly to Grantaire’s hand, Enjolras leads them to the wheel of the ship where Combeferre had so bravely stood while Enjolras was below decks.

“The storms passing, Captain!” Combeferre shouts again as they approach. “We stayed in the eye of the storm, so no damage yet, but we best be heading somewhere else.”

“East.” Grantaire says. “We have to go east.”

Combeferre’s hesitance to follow the direction is clear as his eyes flick between Grantaire and Enjorlas.

“Well? You heard the man!” Enjolras snaps. “East, we search for land there, wait out the storm.”

“Aye, Sir!” Combeferre nods his affirmative. He adjust his wheel accordingly.

Enjolras squeezes Grantaire’s hand. They’ll make it out of this alive, just like they’ve made it out of every other storm before.

 

The next few days pass in whirling sands and the unplanned dock on the borders of Northern Ireland. They ask in their thick accents, choking around French and demanding to know who they were and what they were doing at their docks. Their manners were barbaric at best, at least Enjolras thought so, but they provided food and a place to stay as the storm swept through the village.

Grantaire often awoke, a bed away, in a flushed sweat because he could swear the storm was  _ chasing me, I swear, Enjolras, I can’t shake it _ . Each time, Enjolras would gather him close until the shakes subsided and the sweating stopped. Each time, Enjolras would just stay calm and offer soft reassurance until Grantaire’s breathing slowed back to normal. Each time, Grantaire would cling to him  _ so tightly _ .

Enjolras tried not to think about how many times Grantaire didn’t have anyone to cling to. How many times he had suffered a storm as it brewed in the harbor of his port, how many times he’d passed out in a bar from the whirlwind sweeping his mind blank. How, as a child, it must have been  _ worse _ . Grantaire, after all, had only known Enjolras a handful of years, and had been part of his crew for even less. From the beginning Enjolras could see how Grantaire needed someone to help him. Over time, Enjolras realized it was he who had to step forward and show Grantaire the kindness he deserved.

It’s surprisingly easy to fall asleep with the weight of Grantaire on Enjolras’s chest.

 

The next morning Enjolras is awoken by a messenger, come to collect him for a meeting with their hosts. As captain and head of his crew and friends, it’s Enjolras’s responsibility to manage their interactions with the others and make sure they aren’t overstaying their welcome. But as Enjolras tries to sit up, the thick arm of Grantaire tightens around his torso.

“Hm?” Enjolras tries to shove it off in his still half-asleep daze.

“Should I leave you, sir? Just for a moment?” The poor messenger boy probably doesn’t know what to do in this situation.

“Yes. I’ll be right out.” The messenger quickly scampers away, leaving Enjolras to deal with the very much asleep man pressed against his side. “Grantaire, please.” Enjolras sighs to himself. “Let go.” He pushes Grantaire’s arm again, trying to nudge it off, but Grantaire stirs and protests with rough grumbles.

“Don’t go.” He mumbles.

“I have to. Duty calls.” Enjolras says. He tries to sit up.

“Please don’t leave me.” Grantaire says, his voice even quieter this time.

Enjolras stops moving, looking down at the mess of hair that’s hiding Grantaire’s face. “I’ll be right back, Grantaire.”

“No you won’t.”

“I will. You have my word.” Enjolras promises. “I have to talk with the people that are letting us so kindly stay here while the storm passes us.”

“It’s still cloudy out; it won’t pass for a few days. Can’t the meeting wait?”   
“I’m afraid not.” Enjolras says. He tries not to notice that Grantaire knew exactly what the weather was without even looking outside. “I’ll only be a few minutes.” Grantaire is still for a moment, but then his arm slides away and Enjolras can sit up properly. He spends a second there, staring down at Grantaire as a strange emotion rises up in him, and it’s confusing, so Enjolras quickly tamps down on it.

“Well?” Grantaire turns his face, peeking up at Enjolras through his hair with one startlingly blue eye. His voice is resigned and quiet. “Don’t be late.”

The meeting is more garbled French and unnecessary yelling. At this point, Enjolras is beginning to thing that’s just how they  _ talk _ \- loudly and rudely. They somehow manage to come to an agreement.

Enjolras is particularly adamant that they be allowed to stay until the storm passes. Normally, and he keeps this to himself, he and his crew would just brave the storm and sail until they found another port, and then would just hop and skip their way back to France. But after this close call with Grantaire, with the storm being the most intense it’s ever been, Enjolras is going to play it safe. He wouldn’t even think of dragging Grantaire out onto the open waters right now.

In return for their safety and food for the next week or so, their hosts offer them a trade- either gold or other such treasures, or still a little gold and mainly labor and chores around the inn. Enjolras chooses the second one. Labor would be good for his crew in this time on land with nothing to do day after day.

With a touch more yelling and some hurried maths, Enjolras is allowed to leave. He briefly meets up with Combeferre in the hallway.

“How’s it going?” Combeferre asks.

“Fine. I settled our debts, so make sure to tell the men that they can’t get too comfortable.”

“No, I mean, with Grantaire.” Combeferre’s eyes glint knowingly behind his glasses. “The storms, they scare him, don’t they?”

“You could say that.” Enjolras sighs, adjusting his collar. “I... Grantaire puts up a fight at every turn, you know that. He fights with himself more often than not, and I think the storms make it worse.” A half truth. Enjolras could never lie outright to Combeferre, but Enjolras doesn’t think it’s his information to tell.

“It looks like it’ll be gone by tonight.” Combeferre says, his pale eyebrows raised.

“Mm, I don’t think so.” Enjolras is almost surprised at himself for trusting Grantaire’s word over his right hand man’s word, but he has fairly reason to believe Grantaire’s intuition.

“What? You think it will last longer?”   
“Yes.”

“Well, if you say so.” Combeferre says. “I’ll be sure to tell everyone to get off their lazy asses.” He smirks. “I love getting the opportunity do that.”

“Don’t be too hard on them.” Enjolras smiles warmly. “They can rest for a bit longer, they worked hard getting us to safety.”

Combeferre nods, turning away to go. 

“Oh, and ‘Ferre? Tell Bahorel not to drink with these Irishmen. They’ll put him under a table in no time.”

“Yes captain!” Combeferre laughs, turning away and jogging back to his half of the inn to inform the men of the news.

When Enjolras comes back to his own room, Grantaire is still laying immobile in the sheets.

“I’ve returned.” Enjolras says softly. His boots are sharp against the wooden floor even as he tries to tread lightly.

“So you have.” Grantaire mumbles. 

“I said I would.”

“Mhm.” Grantaire doesn’t move, even when Enjolras sits on the edge of the bed and goes to take off his boots.

“You know, this is my bed. Yours is over there.” Enjolras teases lightly.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras chuckles. “What am I do to?”

Grantaire looks at him, his puppy dog eyes doing all kinds of things to Enjolras. They are so strong, burning bright, when just last night they were cloudy and gray. “Shut up? Let a poor man rest?”

“That’s incredibly rude of you, don’t you know who I am?” Enjolras fakes offense. “I am your captain, a man who so kindly took you in off the streets and offered you work in exchange for-”   
“Captain or not, you’re disturbing me.” Grantaire reaches out and throws the blanket up over Enjolras’s face. “Either shut up and go away, or shut up and lay down.” 

“Such wonderful options.” Enjolras mutters, pulling the blanket from his face. “Are you really that tired?”

“Having the sea basically possess you is tiring work, I assure you.” Grantaire says. “I won’t be much longer, promise.”

“That’s alright.” Enjolras is quick to reassure his friend. “I’ve settled it, so we’re free to stay here until the storm passes. A bit of chores must be done, but that’s very manageable, don’t you think?”

Grantaire doesn’t respond. Enjolras shakes his head with a fond smile. Looks like he’s going to have a lazy morning too. He kicks his boots aside and pulls the blanket up to cover himself and lays down next to Grantaire, who is pleasantly warm under the sheets. Enjolras doesn’t comment as Grantaire subtly shuffles closer to him, turning his head to face Enjolras.

He’ll protect Grantaire. He cares too much about him to let anything happen to him. Enjolras faces Grantaire too, letting his eyes drift lazily over the features of Grantaire’s carved face.

When Grantaire meets his eye, Enjolras smiles.


End file.
